


Heave Ho

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, International Talk Like A Pirate Day, M/M, Pirates, Sailing, Seasickness, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-19
Updated: 2006-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean finds he's not quite meant for life at sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heave Ho

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of fun written _on_ Talk Like a Pirate Day _for_ Talk Like a Pirate Day. Thanks to [](http://cinzia.livejournal.com/profile)[**cinzia**](http://cinzia.livejournal.com/) for simile help and to both her and [](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/)**savageseraph** for being such willing test audiences.

The horizon dipped. And rose. And dipped again. Sean groaned and clutched at the railing, certain he could feel the woodgrain imprinting itself into his palms. The last slow thread of spittle stretched, slid from the corner of his mouth into the waves below. Waves that roiled in time with his heaving insides, like... like something really appropriate and colourful that he couldn't think of just now, what with the rolling and tossing and puking. _Puking colourfully,_ his brain reluctantly added as he squeezed his eyes shut.

A few great gulps of air and intense concentration on the deck beneath his feet did wonders toward calming his own sea of bile, and if he focussed on the way the wind caressed his face and the salt on his lips he was almost able to ignore the soured saliva pooling under his tongue.

He had to admit the blindingly-white shirt billowed rather comfortably around him, unnecessary ruffles and lack of buttons aside, and while the cutlass at his hip was a bit more unwieldy than a sword that'd been especially made and balanced for him (and then replicated in lighter materials, he hesitated to admit), it did give him a certain amount of flair. He didn't even mind the too-tight trousers that were apparently a "necess'ry parrrt o' th' whole look," and the knee-high boots, while not yet as comfortably worn, were almost as good as his old Sharpe ones.

Yeah, it'd all do in a pinch. A rather large pinch that involved a lot of incredulous chortling followed by grudging acceptance, but still...

A peal of laughter trailing off into a long, slightly-forced line of 'r's broke into Sean's concentrated not-concentrating, attracting his attention. He turned slowly, gingerly shifting as little as possible until his back rested solidly against the rail, arms flung out on either side, providing much-needed support-through-clinging.

Just as he'd suspected, there was Viggo hanging off the wheel, cackling to the skies, warbling orders at his motley actors-cum-crew, all having blithely signed up for Cap'n Vig's newest lark. _And all probably regretting it,_ Sean grumped. He eyed their disreputable captain, draped in weathered leather and cloth, his own cutlass clattering against a series of buckles, flapping against his greatcoat in an excellent imitation of the currently flapping mainsail. Why exactly was Viggo's clothing so much looser and less ruffled than his own? He searched his memory, coming up with no lost bets or coin-tosses and made a note to mention it to Cap'n Comfy later.

He must have made a noise, or maybe it was just Viggo's disturbingly sharp homing skills, but now "Murderous Mortensen" (as he was insisting on calling himself today) was gesturing in his direction, grinning and shouting cheerfully against the rattle and creak of the rigging. "Arrr! That be me wench! All ye landlubbin' bilge rats better keep yer scurvy hands off o' he!"

Sean cringed. Clearly Viggo hadn't quite gotten the language down yet.

But in spite of Sean's body's need to examine of the joys of seasickness up-close, in spite of the over-tight trousers that were at this very instant threatening to wench him, in spite of the cool breezes brought on by his button shortage and the linguistic horrors visited down upon his ears, it was hard to deny Viggo anything, especially when he was so damn enthusiastic. If only "sail around the world" had meant a well-stocked yacht, a sane captain and crew, and a pair of jeans.

Oh well. At least there was plenty of rum, that was for certain. And there were a few minor advantages to playing wench to Viggo's captain.

And just right now Sean was more than willing to unman himself if it meant his insides would stop bobbing up and down in time with the swaying ship.

"Yer a fine wench, arrrn't ye?" Cap'n Crazy bellowed as a particularly violent wave vented its fury against the stern.

Sean's stomach churned, drowning any hope of a saucy retort. "Sure," he mumbled as he doubled over, throat opening up as he began the grim task of revisiting past lunches. A mess he didn't even remember eating splattered a vivid spray of shapes on the deck. _Hopefully,_ Sean speculated dizzily, involuntarily lurching forward once again, _Viggo hadn't paid too much for the boots._


End file.
